The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1)

by J. Steven Butler

  In a strategic move, The High Council made the airports the governmental housing structures of the refuge cities. It gave them quick access to travel, and made it easier to control unauthorized flying by any private citizens who had the means. Being the biggest, Hartsfield Jackson was selected to be the primary hub and effectively became the new capitol building of The States. Atlanta was the new Washington. I guess the South finally got what it wanted.

  Everything was chaotic after The Virus hit, and what was reformed of our government made a lot of changes that they felt were imperative given what the world was up against. There were very few survivors in comparison to the number of prior citizens, and it was decided they should be moved into a handful of the larger metropolitan areas where they could be better protected. New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta were the cities chosen, with the additions of a few smaller cities in the less densely populated areas of the country.

  The relocation was theoretically optional, but few chose not to participate. It was made clear that if you refused, you were on your own. In the wake of the disaster, it seemed like a fabulous idea to almost everyone, and had the added benefit of providing the emotional support of organized community.

  Sadly, what was left of our society fit quite comfortably into the refuges. And it was in these revamped metropolises that The Council reformed educational systems, trade, employment, and built a new way of life for what was left of our country. It was around this time that Cedric Archer formed The Organization with the approval of The Council.

  Mira and I sit at a small table looking at an overhead projection from an ancient camera showing a schematic of Atlanta.

  “Mr. Eckert created the necessity for a trip to Atlanta tomorrow to meet with some of the officials at Command. Population management issues,” Archer says as he stands at the head of the table with his hands resting on the edge. “He convinced them to do a nighttime meeting under the guise of needing to get back to Chicago to head up an investigation. He and Johnson have managed to obtain the location where Jonathan Harbin is being held.”

  He points to a building on the map in downtown Atlanta surrounded by a bright red circle. “This is the Georgia Pacific Tower. Once used for other purposes, it’s now used by the government. But in actuality, they don’t use it for much of anything. A couple of non-essential offices and storage mostly. It does, however, contain a peculiar addition. On the twentieth floor, a detention center was constructed after The Virus. Allegedly, it’s used to hide away prisoners of various government interests.”

  “Are there a lot of those these days?” I ask. “Prisoners of government interest I mean.”

  “Apparently enough to warrant the construction,” Archer says dryly.

  I look over at Mira who sits observing quietly. If anyone here would know about people being detained by the government, it would be her.

  She shrugs. “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she says conspiratorially.

  Archer pulls out a chair and sits across from us, crossing his arms over his burly chest.

  “Eckert is confident that Harbin is the only prisoner there right now. Fortunately for us, security is slack. In this case, their primary protection is anonymity. Only those with the highest clearance even know the detention center is there.

  “With your talents, you two should have no problem getting in. The few cameras they have are concentrated on monitoring the main entrances and perimeters of the complex. The place is massive, so you should be able to get around relatively unseen, but that’s not the real problem. The problem is we’re going to need a precision parachute drop from each of you to pull this off. You'll have the cover of night, but there's no room for error. Mira, you’ll be jumping on the way in to Command and will stay covered in your prep position. Cray, you’ll hide out in a storage compartment on the plane until Eckert is done with his meeting and re-boards for flight back to New York. In the second pass over the city, you’ll be jumping. And that’s where all the fun begins.”

  Chapter 10

  I stand by the edge of the roof, looking out over the darkened skyline of New York City, turning the mission over again in my head for the tenth time. There’s a lot riding on this, and I want it to go down without a hitch.

  Above me, stars light the night sky. I can remember a time when stars were not visible through the smog that choked the city. But that time is passed. Now, moonlight cascades onto the rooftop garden to my right, creating a beautiful oasis in the midst of the chaos of concrete and harsh reality.

  I don’t tend the garden with its tropical plants and exotic flowers. It’s one of Frank’s projects – something he likes to do in his spare time. But I do love to come up here. The tranquility is ethereal, almost spiritual even. I usually visit on Saturdays. Saturdays are the only days I don’t work, and I often take the opportunity to enjoy the city at night from this safer vantage point.

  Frank has hand-crafted some oak chairs and benches strewn throughout the garden, exquisite in their simplicity, where I often sit savoring the nighttime breeze, luxuriating in the rich aromas of compost and the various flowers he’s cultivated.

  But tonight, I stand, feeling restless and edgy.

  In the distance, the spire of the Empire State Building climbs majestically into the sky, and memories come to me unbidden.

  I remember a day when I was ten, that my dad and I took a trip to the top. It was a good day for dad and me. No yelling, no disagreements. It was one of the few times in my life I can remember feeling an emotional connection with him. We stood there for hours gazing out over the city, watching those who dared to be out in the light move around like ants far below us. Dad had made sack lunches – ham and cheese, chocolate pudding, and soda – and we ate there at the top of the world. He seemed more like my old dad that day, the one from before my mom’s death. I didn’t want that day to end.

  Of all the things that stand out to me about it, the one that meant the most was when we got ready to leave. The sun was getting low on the horizon, and dad was anxious to get home before dusk. As we moved towards the elevators, he took my hand in his, and held it as we walked. I knew I was a bit old for that, but I didn’t care, and for the only time I ever remember after mom died, I felt like maybe in some way, deep down, he really did love me.

  But that was a long time ago, and I grit my teeth against the memory, cursing myself for allowing that floodgate of painful emotions to open even a crack. I’ve long since tried to kill off those feelings, and when they weren’t cooperative, I did my best to bury them so deep no light would ever find them. No matter how much I may want it, I can’t change the past.

  I turn my thoughts to Mira, a pleasant distraction from my memories. She fascinates me. When she talks, there’s a form of rambling bubbliness to it, not to say she’s the brainless cheerleader type. No, I can tell she’s extremely intelligent, but she seems like a carefree spirit, which is surprising given what she does. And how lethal she is. Not to mention she gets more beautiful every time I see her. I draw on my recollections to conjure up her face, the soft line of her cheekbones, those full, pouty lips. What I wouldn’t give to kiss those lips!

  And I’m feeling more comfortable around her. As long as we stick to work related subjects, I find I can converse with her now almost easily, so I try to stay away from anything personal, not that I wouldn’t mind knowing more about her, but I don’t see a safe way to do it without potentially making a fool of myself.

  “Mind if I join you?” Mira’s voice breaks the silence close behind me.

  I turn, startled, to find her watching me from a few feet away. Her feet are bare. She wears thin pajama pants, and a tank top that reveals an elegant collarbone framed under a supple neck. Her hair is down for once, tucked smartly behind her ears on either side.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “You look deep in thought. Do you want to be left alone?”

  “Uh…no. You scared me is all.”

  She smiles. “I guess not many people can s
neak up on you?”

  I laugh awkwardly. “No. Not really.”

  She moves across the rooftop and comes to a stop beside me, her body so near I can almost feel the skin of her arm on mine. I wonder if she meant to get that close, and I wonder if she has any idea how she makes me feel. Turning my head slightly, I try to study her angelic features from the corner of my eye. Her head whips towards me suddenly, giving me a knowing, playful look, and I dart my eyes away, my cheeks burning.

  Real smooth, ace, I chide myself. I don’t know how to behave, how to move. Even the act of standing here makes me feel stupid. I don’t know if I should put my hands in my pockets, lean on the ledge, or cross my arms. I end up with my shoulders slightly hunched and my arms hanging limply at my sides.

  After a moment, I steal another glance. She’s not looking at me, but her smile is still full.

  She’s toying with me. I realize she knows exactly how she affects me and she’s eating it up.

  The smell of citrus blends into the air around us as the wind weaves through her raven hair, and I resist the urge to close my eyes and breathe deeply. I become achingly aware of an unbelievable, instinctive urge, way down deep, despite my insecurity, to reach out and pull her to myself – to bury my head in her neck and smother her with kisses.

  But the powerful urge frightens me more than the insecurity. Instead, I change my flow of thoughts and try to remain professional.

  Glancing down, I notice her bare feet again, accompanied by the thin lightness of her outfit.

  “Aren’t you freezing?” I say.

  She looks down at herself as if noticing for the first time that her clothes provide little protection from the cold. She wiggles her toes and something strange passes over her expression. Then she looks up at me and crinkles her nose. “I’m good. I regulate temperature pretty well,” she says with a glint in her eyes.

  I laugh at her odd choice of words. “Well, temperature regulation is an important ability to have,” I say.

  Smiling at my amusement, she motions toward one of the benches rimming the garden. “I’m gonna go sit for a while. You wanna come?” she says with a small toss of her head that makes her eyes shimmer. I just nod idiotically and follow her to the bench and sit. I can’t help but keep picturing myself as an oafish Neanderthal: boy like sit, boy like way you smell, boy think you pretty.

  “This is a really nice place,” she says, gesturing to the garden. “I wish I had a spot like this back home to hang out and relax.”

  “Yeah.” I tell her about how it’s Frank’s hobby, how he’s replants depending on the seasons, and the way he makes the furniture by hand. I’m proud of myself for speaking clearly without tripping over my words. I can feel my confidence rising, albeit painfully slow, but rising nonetheless.

  I clear my throat for no reason, and push on. “So where is home?” I say.

  “Chicago. We have a place there, but we really don’t get to be there very much. We’re both pretty busy. We stay at headquarters in Atlanta a lot. Command is kinda like a little city all to itself, but it’s always packed with too many people, and there aren’t any gardens or rooftop views to check out, you know?”

  I wonder again what her life is like. It would seem to me that the days of spying and espionage are long since gone. What is it that she does day after day?

  She looks at me and smiles a little.

  “So Cray’s a nickname, right?”

  “Yeah,” I manage. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess. It’s cool.”

  “Thanks.” I still feel oafish. “My real name is Alex.”

  “Alex,” she repeats. “Well, Alex, are you nervous about this?” she asks.

  Uh-oh! Here it comes! I can’t believe she’s being so forward! I must be losing it, to think that she could see anything in me worthy of her attention. My mind goes blank and my mouth instantly feels like I’ve been chewing on chalk.

  “Well…um…yeah, I guess so,” I stammer, “I mean, I’m kind of a loner…and I’m not around girls very often…but…” Oh God, this is going terrible!

  Mira laughs and I’m taken aback.

  “I’m sorry, Cray,” she reverts to my nickname and gently bumps my shoulder with her own. “I meant the mission,” and she laughs again, a musical sound. It would be beautiful if I wasn’t dying of shame right now. I’m such a fool!

  She places a hand on my shoulder, briefly. Some disconnected part of me realizes that she wasn’t offended by my unintentional confession of attraction, but that part of me isn’t in control. I’m sure her touch is intended to comfort me. Instead, electricity shoots through my arm and I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

  Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! Work, work, talk about work, I think. I need safe ground fast or I’m going to dissolve into a mindless blob of flesh.

  She slides away from me, almost imperceptibly, and I feel gratitude. My awkwardness is obvious, but she’s trying to give me some space to calm down.

  “No,” I manage to speak, my voice sounding unnaturally high, and I clear my throat again. “I wouldn't say nervous exactly. But I am concerned. There's so much that could go wrong and...” I trail off.

  “Yeah.”

  We both know the score. There's no need to say it out loud. At worst, millions of lives could be the price of our failure. And it’s imperative Archer and Eckert aren’t implicated if we were to be caught. That's why we're going in with nothing to incriminate them, or anyone else involved – no phones, no short range communicators, no identifying information. If this goes sideways, it needs to look like me and Mira were working on our own without the knowledge of our superiors.

  “Yeah,” she says again, her previous playfulness gone, replaced by the seriousness of what lies ahead. “But it’s just crazy isn’t it?” She kicks at a small stone with her toe sending it skittering across the rooftop. “Why would somebody want to make something that could kill so many people? I mean, what’s the point? Why do people always want to play God?”

  I think about that before answering, and I don’t have a good response. Maybe she wasn't looking for one, but I try anyway.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, it seems like our basest instinct is to destroy each other. With all the pain in the world, it still never changes. And I don’t know about God,” I say. “If He even exists, I don’t know how He fits into all this.” It’s the most honest answer I can give, the fact that I don’t have an answer. “What do you think?”

  She pauses to consider and stares up at the sky. “I do think there’s a God.” She grins. “Maybe some people would think that’s old fashioned, but it makes sense to me. It…feels right. And I think He would want us to leave nature alone,” she says thoughtfully. “Stop playing around with things that are bigger than us.”

  Her expression is full of wistfulness and sadness, and I sit staring at her, mesmerized. What would it be like to have her around every day? What would that kind of companionship be like? I’ve never really thought much about those kinds of things. Our world isn’t the type of place for raising happy families, and I hardly even know this girl, but being near her ignites some innate part of me with a need to be close to someone.

  I almost laugh out loud at my silliness. Do I really think she’s interested in me that way? And even if she was, we live in separate worlds, me a Sweeper, her an agent. We might as well be separated by continents. The thought fills me with disappointment.

  I swallow before trying to speak again. “Has your life been…hard?” I say tentatively. According to Archer, she lost her parents too, and I know how that feels. I instantly regret the question, fearing it may be too personal. She doesn’t even know how much I know about her past.

  She shifts towards me a little more as she props her elbow on the back of the bench, resting her head on her hand, her hair falling like an ebony curtain behind her, lightly feathering in the breeze. If she’s uncomfortable with the intimate question, she doesn’t show it.

  “I don’t know. I
guess parts of it have been. I don’t really think of it as hard or easy. It just is. I bet me and you are a lot alike in that way. We do what we have to. Eckert isn’t my real dad, you know?” she says.

  I nod.

  “I thought Archer might tell you. But Eckert loves me very much,” she continues. “He’s always taken good care of me, tried to make me strong, been there for me. I couldn’t ask for a better dad. I can’t imagine what my life would have been without him. Eckert made me feel normal, despite the craziness we live in. But yeah, I guess a lot of what is expected of me as an agent is hard. Hard to do and hard to live with.”

  It’s like she’s describing me instead of herself. Maybe she senses the similarities between us too. Maybe that’s why she asked me the other night about what it was like to be a Sweeper. Maybe she innately understands me in a way few could.

  “I’m glad he’s been there for you,” I say. “Eckert seems like a good man. Was he ever married?”

  “Just married to the country. He’s had some flings, but he’s always been a duty first kind of guy. Duty and me. I guess in his own way, he’s tried to give me as happy a life as possible.”

  “And are you?” I gather my courage. “Happy, I mean?”

  Something in her demeanor changes and suddenly I can see the super-spy wall is back up again. Instead of answering, she changes the subject.

  “So what about you? You have any family?” Her tone is gentle and respectful. After The Virus, nearly everyone has lost someone close to them, and she knows it’s a good bet that I have.

  “Well, I say,” trying to sound flippant, “my family life was dysfunctional. I mean, my mom, she was great, but…she died when I was very young and my dad…” my voice catches and I have to struggle with the rush of emotions that builds in my chest. This is not where I wanted this conversation to go. “He changed,” I say. “He became the perfect role model of what not to be as a dad.”